


Pastel Paints

by jawbonesandjumpers



Series: My Masterpiece [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Art Critic!Sherlock, Artist AU, Artist!John, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Love at First Sight, M/M, Past Attempted Suicide, Sherlock is Secretly a Hopeless Romantic, only a tiny bit though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3088439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawbonesandjumpers/pseuds/jawbonesandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds his muse and John paints an angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pastel Paints

**Author's Note:**

> Second part to Bloody Brushes, since everyone was so kind and encouraged me to write more. Thank you everyone!
> 
> Unbeta'd, feel free to point out any errors.

Sherlock closed his eyes. Felt his heart flutter. Opened them again and forced the feeling down.

 

One month.

It had been a whole month since he had last seen John. Since he had purchased all of the artists’ paintings and held the opening show for them. Since the frantic phone calls and attempts for interviews had begun. Since he – well, Lestrade – had started to fight everyone off tooth and nail.

 

Articles, gallery reviews, pure garbage poured forth in the art world. Everyone fearing and praising John for his work, wondering what had possessed Sherlock to endorse him completely. Sherlock had stopped reading them. He knew what he knew about John, he didn’t need others’ opinions or analyses. His work, his self, he was perfect.

 

If only Sherlock could bask in his masterpiece’s perfection.

 

The critic growled and shoved his palms into his eye sockets.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw John’s smile. His golden hair and his tan skin. The hope in his eyes. The way he glowed as he finally took his leave from the opening…

This was getting ridiculous.

He rubbed furiously at his eyes for good measure.

 

He sat there, hunched over on the sofa for a long time, then growled again and stood.

Climbed over the coffee table.

Stomped up the steps to his studio.

Slammed the door closed and sat down in his chair.

Glared at the canvas.

 

He prepared his pallet and began to paint.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

“I got another article for ya,” Mike said with a smile, grinning more when John rolled his eyes and went back to cooking.

 

The manager sat down at the kitchen table in the spacious new flat, looked out the large windows at the setting sun before flipping the newspaper open and clearing his throat dramatically.

“The Petrifying Paintings of John Watson,” he began, snickering when John sighed, “The paintings by the mysterious man are haunting and beautiful. Never before have I seen such photorealistic work, such painstaking attention to detail, since before the turn of the century. The atmosphere, the perfectly chosen colors, everything about them make one feel as if they are a part of the nightmarish scenes, even in the desert itself. Stare at one, and you begin to feel the sand beneath your feet, the hot wind against your skin. How does Watson manage to paint these scenes so perfectly? Was he there in the desert himself? What did he see to give him these visions? It is incredible to think about what he must have gone through, and just how much talent he always possessed but probably never utilized. Perhaps even more astounding is the fact that world-renowned art critic and collector Sherlock Holmes found this diamond in the rough and brought him into stardom. We may never find out why Holmes chose him, but we all just have to hold a collective breath and wait for Watson’s next masterpiece.”

 

He stopped and looked over at John.

John had stopped stirring the pasta and was staring down into the boiling water. He cleared his throat and rubbed at his forehead, then went back to stirring.

 

“Well, they sure did praise you,” Mike tried, his smile falling when John just shrugged.

He looked around at the flat, thought about the one John used to coop himself up in.

“You’ve certainly come a long way,” he said quietly.

 

He grinned when John smiled over at him.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

Sherlock sat and stared at the finished painting.

He chewed on his thumbnail and felt dread wrap around his heart and hold on tight. His temple felt clammy, his toes cold. His nerves on fire and his muscles twitch.

 

He hadn’t meant to paint it. He had just needed to paint. _Needed_ to.

And now he had. And it was his best work. The only work he had ever been proud of.

 

A sea of people, all dressed to the nines. Every fiber of faux fur, every glittering piece of gold, every reflection on every wine glass. They were all beautiful and ugly, all fake. But in the middle stood a man, dressed perfectly in a suit. He carefully leaned on his aluminum cane, carefully held onto his wine glass, carefully tried to seem as small as possible. Amongst the crowd, the colors, the noise, he shined brighter than the rest. His blue eyes held pain and fear, a loving touch and quiet courage. His flaxen hair glistened in the glow of the gallery lights. His bronze skin hid the scars underneath. He was pure and golden.

 

Damn his foolish heart. _God damn it_.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

John smiled and looked at his latest painting. Ran a gentle finger along the edge.

God, he hoped Sherlock would like this one. He hoped and prayed.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

“Here’s the latest one,” Mike said cheerfully.

 

“Hurry, set it down! Open it, what are you waiting for,” Sherlock barked, watching the manager like a hawk while Lestrade frowned in annoyance.

Mike huffed and set the painting down gently, unwrapping the covering and spreading it out along the table in the back of the gallery.

Another masterpiece to hang alongside its brethren. To be immortalized in the gallery.

Sherlock held his breath, stepped forward and prepared himself to see heaven.

 

Another soldier. A gunshot wound in the middle of his chest, blood dripping down and staining his uniform. He’s still alive, still in one piece, but only just. His eyes are full of fading life. There’s no remorse, no words unspoken to loved ones, only peace as he looks above to the man holding him. Lifting him up.

The other man is not a man at all. He is an angel, made of pale skin and starlight. His blue eyes are alight with love and compassion, his pink lips upturned only just. Telling the soldier that it’s okay, that everything will be okay. His dark curls swirl about as if he were submerged in water, yet he glows in the middle of the dark desert night. The sand that has dirtied the soldier doesn't touch him, doesn’t soil his perfection. There are no wings, but he shines with a heavenly light as he leads the soldier home.

 

Sherlock’s eyes darted across the painting. He felt panic, fury bubble up in his chest.

 

He ignored everyone’s questions as he stomped out of the gallery and grabbed a taxi.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

Violent knocking on the door made John sigh and stand up.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” he called out as he limped over, growing more and more agitated with every hard thump against the wood.

His mouth fell open when he was greeted with a very angry looking Sherlock Holmes.

 

“How did you – what are you,” he stammered before the critic cut him off.

“What have you done,” Sherlock snarled, eyes full of fire.

John only blinked. “How do you know where I live?”

Ignoring the question completely, the critic barreled on with increasing fervor, “What have you done? I endorsed you, bought every one of your paintings because you had talent! Because I saw something in you! Saw perfection! But you’ve ruined _everything_!”

The artist stared in confusion. Watched as Sherlock’s face grew more red with anger, as his eyes grew more manic. “What the hell are you talking about,” he answered incredulously.

He jumped when Sherlock growled and began to wave his hands about.

“Your latest painting! You’ve taken a masterpiece and turned it into a _monstrosity_! You are supposed to paint the _truth_! You’re supposed to paint what you saw in war, what you still see! You’re supposed to paint blood and gore, death and destruction! I thought you were above the idiotic, idealistic, _romantic_ masses! I thought you would never stoop so low as to paint false ideas of angels and redemption through death and… all that nonsense! Your work was _perfect_ and now you’re no better than all the rest of the useless _artists_ in the world!”

 

Sherlock stood there, face contorted and shaking.

For a split second, he saw a look pass through John’s eyes.

Something strange. Something deeper than sadness.

He could only blink when John slammed the door in his face.

 

He went home and stared at his golden, painted, perfect John until the sun went down.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

Sherlock didn’t hang John’s angel in the gallery.

 

 

 

 

                                     

John didn’t paint the next month.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

“You fucked up, Sherlock.”

“Shut up,” the critic hissed. Curled into a smaller ball on the sofa. Ignored the assistant hovering over him.

“You should go apologize to him,” Greg said quietly in the dark flat.

 

The curtains hadn’t been opened in days. The room smelled of dust and damp.

Lestrade couldn’t tell when the last time was that his boss, his friend, had showered or eaten.

 

“I said _shut_ _up_!”

 

Greg threw his hands in the air and prayed for patience.

“Look, you said he was the artist you’ve been waiting your whole career for, right? Are you really gonna give that up just because he painted something a bit different? Because he experimented and made something beautiful,” he asked, looking down at the lump of a man incredulously.

He sighed and left when Sherlock didn’t answer.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

John lied in his big bed in his big bedroom in his big flat.

 

He felt so small.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

Sherlock pulled the cover off the painting, let the cloth fall into a heap on the floor.

He looked at his golden John, at his best painting.

 

He closed his eyes and felt his heart flutter again.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

A quiet knock.

Sherlock was on the other side. This time, his eyes were on his feet.

 

“What do you want,” John demanded.

Sherlock froze at his harsh tone. Stood in silence for a moment. Mumbled, “May I come in?”

The artist gazed at him, stared at the long eyelashes that were hiding those icy blue eyes. He sighed and opened the door more, moving to the side to let him in.

 

John motioned to a chair at the kitchen table, which Sherlock sat in dutifully. “Tea,” he asked, frowning when Sherlock only shook his head.

He sat down as well, then leaned his cane against the table and crossed his arms, glaring at the critic for a long while before gritting, “Alright, what’s this all about?”

Sherlock laced his fingers together in his lap and wriggled them nervously. “I came to… apologize…” When he was met with only silence, he pushed on, “I shouldn’t have said the things I did… I wasn’t prepared for… change in your work. Technically speaking, there isn’t much change, you still painted the same way you normally do. You still spent days on detail, on making it perfect. I just… the angel… I wasn’t…”

The critic fell quiet.

  
The silence dragged on.

 

He took a deep breath and continued, “I admire your work because of how harsh, how _real_ it is. I told you once that I abhor sentiment… I abhor anything being _fake_ even more. The angel, to me at least, feels… fake. Perhaps because it has not appeared in any other painting. Or perhaps I’m just being too critical.” He sighed. “Appreciating a masterpiece is one thing, but creating one… is another matter entirely. Your new piece is a masterpiece, just as the others you’ve made, and it’s not my place to criticize it so.”

He finally met John’s eyes, surprised to find only quiet regard in them. “I promised I would purchase and showcase all of your works. If you still wish to adhere to that agreement, I will gladly hang the last piece in my gallery.”

John watched him. Searched his gaze and licked his lips nervously. “It’s not,” he started quietly, “It’s not an angel… not really.” He licked his lips again when Sherlock frowned in confusion. “It’s… you.”

Sherlock blinked. And blinked. And blinked some more. “I don’t understand,” he finally croaked.

John took a deep breath. Scratched his forehead and looked down in embarrassment. “The… the angel… it’s not just some angel. It’s _you_. I painted… you.” He huffed when Sherlock only continued to blink. “Sherlock, you know how I said I had seen your work before?”

The critic nodded dumbly.

“I said that because… you’ve been a huge inspiration to me,” he said softly. “When I first got back from the desert, I was… I was so lost. I was in therapy and I didn’t know what to do with myself. My doctor had me try all sorts of things to deal with it all, but none of them worked. She even had me try painting, said it would help, ‘specially since I used to doodle when I was younger. I tried it, but everything I made was shit. I didn’t know what I was doing but I tried it and it didn’t work, so I threw my leftover supplies under my bed and forgot about it. I just kept… sinking. I was…” He took a moment to clear his throat. “I was gonna… use my gun one night. I had finally had enough… I had prepared and was going to… do it right before I went to bed. I was browsing the internet earlier that day, just trying to pass the time… and I found it.”

Sherlock blinked again, looking distraught and even more confused.

“Your website, I mean,” John said with a sad smile. “You said that anyone can paint, but not everyone can be an artist. I didn’t really agree with you, but I got what you were saying. You said that anyone can paint a bowl of fruit or a flower or a landscape, but a true artist takes what they’re most afraid of, most loving of, most passionate about, and paints it exactly as they see it so that it’s real. So that nothing is faked.” He smiled more, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he did so. “I thought about what causes me to feel the most emotion… and I knew right away that it was what I saw in my nightmares. They’re what I hate, what I’m terrified of the most. I looked at all of your work, read everything you had written. I studied the way you paint, became inspired by how detailed and real it is. I wanted to be an artist like you…”

He cleared his throat again, his eyes looking shiny. “So instead of… of taking my life that night… I painted.”

Sherlock brought a hand up and rubbed at his mouth, feeling his own eyes water.

“If I hadn’t,” John continued raggedly, “If I hadn’t found your website, your work that night, I wouldn’t be… I… I didn’t want any of this to happen at first because I just… I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe that the man who’d saved me could ever value anything I ever made. I couldn’t believe it and I was afraid, but after meeting you…” He smiled again, sniffing and letting out a quiet laugh. “I didn’t know how else to thank you for everything…”

 

The critic gazed at the artist. At the broken, beautiful, flawed, perfect human in front of him.

Felt his heart flutter and sprout wings. Float up out of his chest and into the heavens.

“I painted you too,” he said roughly, a ball of sentiment lodged in his throat.

It was John’s turn to blink.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” he added quickly. “I just needed to paint, and before I knew it… I had just… You in the gallery, at the opening… It’s my best work. The only work I’ve ever felt… proud of.”

The critic watched nervously as John swallowed, licked his lips once more, and gave him a smile so loving it was blinding. It took his breath away, and he couldn’t help but whisper, “John… you are amazing…”

John’s smile fell, but the love in his eyes grew. He sniffed again and shook his head in disbelief.

 

Perfect, golden John slowly got out of his seat.

Shuffled up to him.

Lifted a small, callused hand and touched a sharp, blushing cheekbone.

Watched as pale eyes grew wide and filled with fear, hope, love.

Closed the small, infinite abyss between them.

 

 

 

 

 

And kissed him.


End file.
